She opened her eyes and slid out from under the sheets. The early-morning sun - something she hadn't seen in ages - filtered through the chink in the heavy damask curtains. She pulled them open and blinked in the unexpectedly bright light. Then she took her white silk robe from the back of the bedroom door and tiptoed downstairs so that she didn't wake her fourteen-year-old daughter. Not, she thought, that there was really much chance of that. Most mornings a pickaxe wouldn't have gone amiss when trying to prise Georgia out of bed - Claire would spend ages shaking her and calling out her name before Georgia budged. But she felt that this morning might be different because Georgia was thrilled about her trip to the Irish College in Galway and had been wildly over-excited the night before. It had taken all Claire's powers of persuasion to get her to bed in the first place and she knew that Georgia had spent at least an hour reading or listening to her shiny pink iPod in her room afterwards because she'd been able to see the glow of the light from beneath her door. So she didn't really want her waking up too early now.

She went into the kitchen and opened the back door. Phydough, their two-year-old mainly Old English Sheepdog (his mother was pure-bred and beautiful but his father had legged it after his moment of illicit lust) barked happily at her. Claire had chosen the quirky spelling of Fido from a children's book that Georgia had once loved believing that a dog of his undoubted intelligence and dignity needed a special name.

'Quiet, Phy,' she whispered. 'Don't wake the entire neighbourhood!' The dog gave a small woof and then wagged his tail enthusiastically. Claire scratched him behind his ears and took a pouch of food from the cupboard. Phydough jumped up on his hind legs and leaned up against the cupboard doors, his soft brown eyes eager with anticipation.
'Down, Phy,' she said. 'Sit.' She filled the bright blue ceramic bowl which Georgia had bought him the previous Christmas and put it down in front of him. The dog snuffled his way happily through the chicken and vegetable mix while Claire filled the kettle and plugged it in. Then she walked out onto the patio behind the house and surveyed the bedraggled garden.

It was long and narrow and right now it was also a total mess. The lawn badly needed to be cut and the evergreens that lined the walls were growing out of control, choking the rose bushes which had been forced to thrust their stems high into the air in the fight for light. The flowerbeds were over-run with weeds and the two apple trees desperately needed pruning. Part of the problem of course was that the incessant rain of the past fortnight had caused everything to shoot up by an extra couple of inches as well as flattening some of the flowers and giving them an appearance more suited to autumn than mid-summer. But the real reason that the garden was unkempt and overgrown was that it had always been Bill's domain, not Claire's. And she hadn't been able to face tackling it in the past three years so that the only job that had been done, even on a half-regular basis, had been mowing the lawn. She bit the inside of her lip as she looked at the weeds encroaching on the patio area and the sodden bamboo grasses along the near wall. Soon, she promised herself. Soon I'll do something about it.

The kettle clicked off and she spooned coffee into her favourite yellow mug. She took a blueberry muffin out of the bread-bin and peeled away the waxy paper as she tucked her legs beneath her and perched on a chair at the kitchen table. She pulled the previous day's paper towards her and glanced through the news. But her mind really wasn't on the task. She was thinking about Georgia and her trip to the summer camp in the Irish-speaking Gaeltacht and hoping that she'd have a good time in her month away. And, if she was really, really honest with herself, she was wondering how the hell she was going to cope on her own for a month too. The closest she'd ever been to living on her own before had been the few weeks she'd spent as an au-pair in France. And that didn't really count because even though she hadn't had any family or friends around her, the house had been full of the shouts and squeals of the two Carmichael children and she was never actually on her own. Admittedly their parents hadn't been around that much but at least Amy and Raul had taken up her time.

I will not obsess about being alone, she muttered as she threw her half-eaten muffin out of the open kitchen door and onto the grass beyond the patio; loads and loads of women live on their own. I only need to get through the next month. It won't be that difficult. And besides, I've lots of work to do and some very tight deadlines to do it in. I'm always complaining to Georgia about how much work I have to get through. With her out of my hair I'll be able to concentrate on getting stuff done instead of moaning about how hard it is to find the time.

She drained her mug and refolded the newspaper. Then she began the task of tackling the mountain of ironing piled up on the rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen. This was her second major batch of ironing in the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday had been the critical stuff - all of the clothes that Georgia wanted to take to camp with her. Claire had wailed at her that she hardly needed to take a T-shirt for every single day that she'd be there and that seven pairs of identical jeans was surely a bit excessive but Georgia had given her that pitying look that teenagers use when faced with hopeless parents and had reminded her that it was important to have the right stuff and that she had to cater for goodness knows what social events and that there was no way she was going to be the only one who had nothing to wear.

'But Georgey - you're bringing eight white Tees and they're all the same,' cried Claire. 'And I know you need different things for different events but different doesn't just mean another pair of jeans.'
Georgia had pointed to an overlooked stack of brightly coloured mini-skirts. 'And you can't complain about those because you bought them for me,' she'd said triumphantly.

Now Claire pulled one of her own T-shirts towards her and began to iron it. Actually she didn't really mind doing the ironing too much, she found it comparatively restful. She switched on the radio and listened to an early morning chat show as the iron glided across the cotton material. She'd finished the three T-shirts and a couple of pillowcases and was just starting on her king-sized sheet (she hated doing sheets, even though there weren't any awkward parts they were just too big to fit over the ironing board properly) when Georgia walked into the room, wearing her blue pyjamas, rubbing her eyes and yawning widely.
'You're awake early.' Claire glanced at the wall clock. 'Couldn't really sleep,' said Georgia. 'I texted Robyn and she's up too.' 'Are she and her Mum still calling here around ten?' asked Claire. 'I guess so.' Georgia shrugged as she opened the fridge door and took out a fruit smoothie.

'You'll have to have more than that for your breakfast,' remarked Claire. 'I know. I know. Don't fuss.' 'D'you want me to make you anything?' 'Don't be daft, Mum.' Georgia put her arms around Claire's waist. 'I can boil an egg you know.' 'Is that what you're having?' asked Claire sceptically. 'Yeuch.' Georgia leaned against Claire's back so that her red-gold hair cascaded over her mother's shoulders. 'I'm going to make some toast. But to be honest with you I'm not very hungry.' 'Excited?' Claire turned to look at her daughter. Georgia's eyes - amber-flecked like Claire's own - were sparkling with anticipation. 'It'll be fun,' said Georgia. 'It really will.' 'Though how on earth you're going to make yourself understood in Irish at the college when I can hardly understand your English these days I'll never know,' teased Claire gently.
'Oh, like, you're so not with it.' Georgia grinned at her mother. 'And I'm not sure about the Irish either. I can see myself not speaking at all!' There was a sudden, awkward silence and the two of them looked at each other. 'Not like that,' said Georgia hastily seeing the flicker of concern in Claire's eyes. 'Not…you know…just not knowing what to say.' 'Sure, sure.' Claire nodded vigorously. 'But I bet you'll get the hang of it in no time.'

Georgia made a face. 'I hope so. I know it's my native language and I do want to understand it but it's bloody difficult.' 'Only because we don't speak it every day,' said Claire. 'It's like anything, once you get used to it it'll be no bother to you.' 'Your faith in me is very touching.' Georgia grinned. 'Go and make yourself some breakfast,' Claire ordered. 'And stick the kettle on again for me, I'd love another coffee.'